The Howling
A/N: Thank you all for being so understanding. Scott of course isn't going anywhere. You know he still wants some Stiles-action.
Also, once more thank you for reading and/or reviewing! :]
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He'd been there only once before, yet Scott felt comfortable enough to spend the rest of the night in her room. It was so nice and sweet-smelling, and Lydia herself was extremely alluring, so what was Scott supposed to do?
Somehow he managed to end up on his back again, only he wasn't drunk and a beautiful, scantily-clad red-head was on top of him. The night was looking up.
"Scott," she repeated, thrilled he was staying. "I miss seeing you." Lydia playfully swatted at his chest. "Now, I have to know what's going on with you and Allison. Are you guys taking a break?"
Scott's face fell, just for a second, before tugging into a smirk.
"You could say that."
Though he preferred Lydia talking about other things, like what she was going to do to him.
And like the wonderful girl she was, Lydia flashed a cute yet seductive smile and then one shoulder moved forward, just like she always did. Scott briefly paid attention to her, mainly her hands felt perfect on his chest, and the same with her ass was on his waist. Scott liked where this was going.
"Aren't you going to ask about me and Jackson?" asked Lydia, lips pursing to the side.
Scott's eyebrows rose. "Should I ask about Jackson? 'Cause I only care about you."
She tried hush her giggles and leaned forward. Scott stayed where he was. Lydia's hands entangled themselves in his hair. Her fingers were softer and gentler than Stiles, but not quite as gentle as Allison's.
Maybe that's why Scott needed Lydia so much; she was the ultimate distraction. Well not too distracting since he was on auto-pilot whenever they kissed or fucked, but it was enough to calm Scott down. She was there to let him escape his troubles, and he—
"So," Lydia broke into his thoughts. The kiss was over, and Scott's hands were on her breasts. He blinked and squeezed, and both he and Lydia were making God-awful sounds. She kept saying his name, as if her life depended on it, and maybe it did, because his hands were all over her.
But no matter what, they had to keep quiet. Lydia's parents were fucking nuts, and when they weren't fighting amongst themselves they were looking for an excuse to flip out on their daughter.
"Are you really tired?" Lydia whispered, letting a thin strap fall off her shoulder. Scott smiled from his position on the bed and Lydia continued to talk, because talking always led to other things. It was like a game they played, and Scott briefly wondered if he should try this with Allison. Talking had proven somewhat useful with Stiles, to an extent...
"I know you said you're tired, but I'm not." Scott smiled and watched her lips chatter on. Keeping his inner-wolf intact was surprisingly easy around Lydia, well, easier than Allison or Stiles.
What a good, good distraction.
And despite all she was doing—like sliding her pink frilly gown of her chest, and God, did she have a nice pair of breasts, with small, perfect nipples and a sparse amount of beauty marks—Scott still wanted Stiles, so much that it burned and clawed inside him. Would the feeling ever go away?
"Yeah, I'm not too tired," said Scott, hands pulling whatever the hell Lydia was wearing down to her milky-white hips.
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They were on their way, well, Derek was sort of limping, and Stiles was holding Derek's jacket and clutching the blanket to his body. The kid was also struggling to hold back shivers. Derek felt bad, for a split second, but his own painful injuries drew his focus elsewhere.
His back had healed first, as had the major breaks and tears in his arms and right leg. But his neck and left leg was still screwed up, and Derek could feel three separate breaks with each step forward. And so he limped on, Stiles trailing close behind, teeth chattering.
They were almost there. Derek had already spotted a small wooden boathouse that would suffice for the night. The alpha, he prayed, would not come back. Derek was getting sick of these games, even more sick of his life.
He physically shook the thoughts from his head, and that was enough for the human behind him to speak up.
"Where are we going?" Stiles' eyes were glued on the man's back, waiting. Derek motioned to the lake and looked behind him, giving out a pained gasp when his neck made a loud cracking sound.
They were silent for the remainder of the walk, Stiles occasionally hissing at any twig or rock that pressed against his feet. But he was doing the best he could, and Derek could appreciate that, but he didn't know for how long. Stiles just got under his skin and drove him nuts.
"Almost there," rasped Derek. Stiles' relieved sighs tickled his ears, but he refused to acknowledge them.
They pressed onwards, and after climbing over two fallen trees and picking their way through bushes, the pair arrived at the edge of dirty sand and—thank God—the lake. It was much cooler around the lake, and Stiles' shivers escalated.
"Cover up," Derek mumbled and looked behind him for a second time, though his neck no longer hurt as much.
"Thanks detective obvious. I'm sure this blanket will do the trick."
Derek ignored the sarcasm and spotted a spot near the shoreline free of dark rocks and driftwood. He made his way over, briefly struggling with the sand, and crouched down.
"What? Are we swimming?" Stiles croaked from the woods. Derek rolled his eyes. How did Stiles manage to ruin every second of peace with stupid remarks?
"Just shut up," he replied and splashed icy water against his face. Derek groaned and rubbed his throat, feeling the somewhat raw flesh and pain and—he was awake, this was real. Stiles was shivering behind him in plaid boxers with a dirty blanket.
"Alright, let's go, this'll have to do for tonight," Derek said and stood up, rotating his neck and shoulders in slow circles.
"What?" Stiles replied, rubbing his hands together.
"We're going over there." The werewolf pointed to a small boat house no more than twenty feet away to their immediate right. Stiles stilled, disbelief crossing his face.
"Really? Really? We can't just go back to my house? And what happened to your car? Did you seriously carry me? Christ, Derek, what the hell is going on?"
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and kept himself calm, silence overtaking the conversation. Stiles shivered again as a gust of wind blew past them, and yeah, Derek was starting to feel bad again.
"Stop your bitching and come on," he snarled. Now was not the time to feel anything but his survival instincts.
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Stiles was not happy. He still felt sort of sick, like he was on a boat or something, and oh, wait, he was on a fucking boat. Only it was dark and their 'shelter' was a boathouse built into a lake. He was in his boxers to boot. And he was sharing this wonderfully horrifying moment with a werewolf who scared the shit out of him.
"This sucks," he muttered Stiles and pulled the now ratty blanket closer.
Derek and he sat on either ends of the small boat, but even so their knees kept brushing against each other. They were surrounded by darkness, though he could make out thin outlines of immediate shapes. Derek kept conversation with Stiles to a minimum. The werewolf was leaning back and using his bunched up jacket as a pillow for his head, and he seemed ready to doze off.
How thoughtful.
"This. Sucks," Stiles said a little louder, prodding for a response.
"Stiles, I swear to God if you don't shut up I am going to drown you, and it will look like an accident."
Stiles huffed at his threat and looked away. It was cold, colder than the forest and also damp, and the thin blanket really wasn't helping his mood. Bits of leaves and smudged dirt now replaced the once soft and clean material, but Stiles didn't need to ask what had happened. The alpha's presence was written all over Derek's face, and consequently his shredded clothes.
And as Stiles looked off in thought, Derek sat forward. He caught the older man's movements in his peripherals, and felt his jaw drop as Derek took his shirt off, like it was no big fucking deal. Did he ever feel cold?
Stiles felt his goosebumps pricking up. He looked back to Derek, one eyebrow arched.
"Still haven't heard back from Chippendales?" he quipped and squinted in the dark. Derek shot him a look and reached behind him for his jacket.
"Oh." Stiles mumbled as the jacket was tossed into his lap. Derek bunched his torn, blood-soaked shirt into a wad and leaned back on it, face disappearing again.
"Um, thanks…" Stiles stared down at Derek's jacket, the boat gently rocking beneath him. He didn't feel cold all of a sudden, he felt rather warm, tingly, almost—
"Put it on," directed Derek, eyes still closed. Stiles sighed and shrugged the blanket off.
The jacket was big on him, roomy, and very warm. Stiles tried not to, but inevitably caught a whiff of the jacket. And apparently Derek smelled…well, like Derek. Like sweat and blood, with hints of aftershave and soap, and…something else, something musky.
"Great, I can feel my nipples."
They didn't speak for a while after that. Stiles occasionally threw a sarcastic remark, and Derek always threw one back, but the conversation never really picked up. Stiles wasn't having it. He knew enough about Derek that he'd have to be swift and direct if he wanted to make any progress.
"What's the fuck's going on with Scott?" he finally asked. Derek, who was still lying on his back, slapped a hand on his face and growled.
"Yeah, I went there, and I deserve to know," said Stiles. If Derek wanted to keep him in the dark, literally since they were in a boathouse, then Stiles wasn't going down without a fight.
"Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm in the middle of healing."
Stiles scoffed and in one swift motion he pulled the jacket off, tossed it onto Derek's chest and stood up. The boat wobbled beneath their sudden movements. Stiles was just about to place a bare foot on the dock when a hand grabbed at his elevated ankle.
He turned and saw Derek looking especially pissed, but managed to play it cool.
"I'm not staying if you're not going to help me." Stiles stared down at Derek, challenging him despite doing his best not to run screaming. Hell at this point he was willing to swim to the other side of the lake.
The boat slowly settled down to a normal rocking motion.
"Sit. Down," breathed Derek. Stiles blinked. Derek was still in pain. That much was obvious.
"I will if you tell me what the fuck's going on."
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Derek was not in the mood for this. He'd just risked his life—yet again—to save this brat of a human, and it still wasn't enough. But the kid deserved to know what was happening with Scott, he just didn't have the energy to keep going back and forth like they had been.
"So, go on," Stiles said and began placing his foot back in the boat.
Derek sighed and released Stiles' ankle—and he felt really cold, and Derek wanted to warm him up, some way—but sat back down in his seat, hands cradling his throbbing head.
"What exactly do you want to know?" His voice came out muffled by his hands. Derek really didn't want to look at the shirtless, young human. His vision was enhanced in the dark. It was ridiculous, how appealing Stiles was without knowing.
"Well," Stiles finally spoke, "Am I back to normal? I mean, I feel a lot better, like…I didn't realize until now how much better, but…still… Something isn't right." Stiles watched Derek's hand slide away from his face, awaiting his response.
"I take it you're aware of what pheromones and hormones are?" Derek asked, leaning forward. Stiles nodded and leaned forward too, subconsciously draw to the waves of heat billowing off Derek. The werewolf inwardly cursed; Stiles' scent was scratching at the edge of his sanity, but he needed to play it cool, like Stiles was trying to do. That was the best course of action for both of them.
He watched Stiles' mouth open.
"Yeah, I mean only what the internet's told me, but it left out the werewolf stuff."
Derek's face was so close to his, and his body was so warm.
But this was not going to happen. Derek bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood, and Stiles leaned back a bit, just enough for both of them to regain their judgment.
Derek continued as best he could.
"Werewolves are sensitive to things humans don't even pay attention to. You all secrete strong scents that connect to your…emotions and hormonal levels," Derek paused, looked Stiles in the eye, and then looked away. "Some scents are…stronger than others, and those are the most dangerous ones to mess with."
Stiles blinked, slowly registering that he was somehow different, yet again. As if having a sex-crazed werewolf for a friend wasn't enough.
"How strong are my, um, pheromones coming off?"
Derek still wouldn't look at him. His face was burning, and he was thankful the human couldn't see as well in the dark.
"Is it that bad? Jesus Christ, man," Stiles practically shouted and sat backwards. Derek gripped either side of the boat so it didn't capsize. His silence pushed the conversation on.
"My kind can control pheromones, especially humans'. It's easier if the human has a strong scent. And whenever one of us messes with a human's pheromones, it never…usually ends well."
Stiles froze in place, shivered, and shook his head.
"You don't say. Well, this has been quite the l-learning experience tonight, hasn't it?" Stiles muttered something else under his breath that Derek picked up as several swears directed at him.
Derek sighed and released his tense grip on the boat. The sound of water splashing against wood replaced their dialogue, and Stiles became more visibly upset, though Derek didn't need to see through the dark to feel his rage and insecurity.
So he continued on with his explanation as best he could. It didn't help that Derek's headache was slowly being replaced with stronger, more distracting pains.
"Scott didn't and still doesn't know what he's capable of. He was screwing with your pheromones and left you in a very bad state—"
"And you," Stiles interjected, "are my knight in sh-shining friggin' armor, breaking in my room and whisking me away to a boathouse while I was unconscious. In n-nothing else but my boxers. And we almost died because the alpha found us! Thanks f-for that—"
Stiles jerked back as Derek let out a very threatening growl. Even the kid knew when he was pushing his luck. The boat swayed to the point of water splattering in, and Stiles let out a startled yelp when Derek shot up.
"I didn't have to save you, okay? I was making sure I didn't have another mistake to babysit!" Stiles cringed at his words and looked away, looked anywhere but Derek. It was then Derek realized his breath had become visibly. He blinked, focused in on his young face. Stiles was really shivering now.
"Oh, damn it," Derek thought as he sat back down in his seat, instantly regaining his composer.
"Stiles, come here," he whispered and reached out. He refused to apologize.
The kid was still shaking, and he was sure it wasn't just the cold now. Derek really didn't want him to go into shock. Stiles had already been through enough tonight.
"I said come here." He grabbed Stiles' wrists, gently tugging him forward.
"Dude, no homo!" screeched Stiles as he felt just how much stronger Derek was than him. The third tug managed to unhinge the kid from his seat, and Derek immediately felt Stiles' forehead bump against his chin.
"Dude," Stiles whined, panic-stricken.
"Easy, easy." Derek shifted in his seat. "You need calm down and warm up."
Next the kid's freezing chest pressed against his, but as soon as Stiles made contact, all fighting ceased. Derek was pleased that he didn't need to physically restrain him anymore and released his wrists.
"Good boy," he practically purred and slowly guided them down to the bottom of the boat, which somehow managed to be colder because the outside was immersed in water. And after his ass touched the bottom, Derek realized just how much water had gone in the boat, but it wasn't enough to cause him immediate discomfort.
However Stiles wouldn't hold up as well. Derek positioned the kid on his lap, biting his lip when his left leg starting acting up. Stiles of course had to open his mouth.
"O-Oh my God, this so reminds me of the one t-time I went to the mall a-and—"
"Shut the hell up," Derek said, grabbing his jacket and throwing it around Stiles' shoulders.
"S-So cold," Stiles' teeth chattered. Derek exhaled through his nose and looked around, wanting to growl and rip something apart. He felt bad, real bad, and he didn't like that feeling, let alone that Stiles was dragging pity out of him.
"B-but seriously, is it bad if this reminds m-me of Santa Claus?" asked Stiles, his head now safely tucked under Derek's chin.
"Merry Christmas," Derek shot back, not really aware of his words.
"Did you just make a joke?" laughed Stiles, and then his hands were rubbing against Derek's bare chest, all for the sake of warmth of course.
"Maybe," Derek replied, satisfied to feel Stiles relaxing. But still, the worry of him going into shock was not gone. He wrapped his arms around the kid, feeling warmth slowly spreading against his chest and legs and also beneath his arms.
"Stupid, stupid," Derek thought, "He's a human, should've remembered to keep him warm. Stupid, keep him fucking warm."
Stiles' whimper crashed into his thoughts.
"What?" asked Derek, voice thick with panic. "What's wrong?"
He heard a snicker and Stiles was looking up at him.
"You really know how to warm a guy up."
The next thing he knew Stiles was kissing him, and Derek wasn't fighting back.
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